Mother of the Year

Hey Heifer,

We’ve known each other for some time now and I’ve been taking care of your kids as my own, while you refuse to acknowledge my existence and, flat out, hide when you see me.

You choose to love yourself above anyone else.

You choose to cower in your hoarder, piss infested “palace” amongst fake crystals, reading your tarot every day, without actually understanding how it all works beyond the book that accompanies your set, rather than pay attention to your children’s school work (it’s OK, your nanny will take care of it).

You choose to bake failed Pinterest cupcake projects (out of a box) for co-workers, rather than feed your children anything nutritious.

You choose to #selfcare and #treatyoself to spa days, overpriced manicures and shiteous hair jobs (more often than anyone I know), rather than making sure your kids ever fucking bathe or brush their teeth (it’s OK, I’ve taken over all of their doctor appointments now).

You choose to spend obsene amounts of money on a wardrobe that doesn’t even fit your fat ass. And while we’re on the topic of your unfortunate anatomy, when you filter (to death), squeeze and stretch your selfies to pretend you’re skinnier and your wrinkle riddled face isn’t so – just remember that your co-workers and family already know what you look like as you waddle through your sad, pretend life every day.

Here’s your mother of the year award, heifer. You deserve it. I can’t even imagine how hard your life must be when, whilst pushing 40, your mummy and daddy are still paying your bills. When you fly to incredible places for free and spend all your time secluded and scared, while I make up excuses when your kids ask me why you won’t Skype with them. It must be hard to have everyone else, and a television, take care of your children, because, let’s face it – you don’t know how. It must be hard to fake your happiness on a daily basis.

I call you heifer not just because of your  ̶u̶d̶d̶e̶r̶s̶ size, but also because you embody that moniker to the tee by being a textbook narcissist pig. Though your “spirit animal” is a unicorn, the reality is that you’re a busted cow with a stick hastily duct taped to her empty head.

You’re a real catch. #SingleSundays

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Author: heyheiferblog

Quiet screams if a resentful stepmum.

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